To the Scars
by My Vantilene
Summary: The date is October 9th, 2012, a Tuesday. The place is Canton, Ohio. The kid running for his life is Karkat Vantas.


_I was browsing some art on tumblr the other day and came across a fantastic artist who presented a unique AU I found intriguing. The only parts of the AU I saw before where bits and pieces floating around my dash, so I never saw the big picture, and was not aware there was a whole side blog dedicated to its development. Loving it from the first artwork I ever laid eyes on, I got to work on my personal interpretation, this fic. Little did I know, the AU the artist actually intended is quite different from what I wrote, I discovered after asking permission to use her art in this work. The AU is skaiawall can be found at , while the genius behind the blog can be found here, . I was going to make this a series because I had no idea this wasn't just a little window into an AU, it was an AU and Anais is nine years older than this silly amateur, I won't overstay my welcome. So, yes, this fic is different from what the artist intended, I apologize for that. Also I talk too much. Sorry._

* * *

The date is October, 9, 2012. The place is a quaint little town dotted on the map as Canton, Ohio. It's a small town, with year-round terrible weather and a fleeting number of residents. It's so small, the high school and middle school children are only able to divide into two cliques. Cliques isn't the write word, though, gangs more like it. And like any gang, there are colors associated with both groups. Purple for Derse, gold for Prospit. The more their situation is analyzed, the clearer it gets that maybe gang isn't a fair way to describe both groups. Derses are a gang, and Prospits are their patriotic punching bags. The teachers have tried to put an end to their feud, and while their efforts were valiant and deserving of the highest respect, there was one factor that kept the gears of dichotomy greased.

Prospits were patriotic. They wanted peace, probably even more than the teachers who led the movement, but they didn't want to trade in their gold sweaters and yellow scarves. They liked being a group of friends with a name for themselves, and they accepted the repercussions that came with standing by it.

The date is October 9th, 2012, a Tuesday. The place is Canton, Ohio. The kid running for his life is Karkat Vantas, a loyal Prospit. He knew he shouldn't have gone through a Derse neighborhood to get home, but he had assured himself that the shortcut was worth running the risk. If he wasn't there before his dad came home…

He didn't want to think about it.

It's not like he can now, anyway. Running for your life turns your brain to hot white noise, thoughts more complex than those of survival are blinded by panic.

He runs, but he's unfamiliar with the neighborhood and runs himself right into an alley. There's a fence, but it's almost twice his height. He decides to jump anyway, as a Prospit will try anything to get away from an armed Derse. Unfortunately, the soft yellow sweater, the only thing he's ever been proud of, snags just as he thinks he's about to make it. The Derse rips him off the fence and tosses him out into the open alley.

He's not familiar with this Derse girl, but she looks a bit younger than him, which he'd note if his attention wasn't solely on the sharp blue claw-like weapon wedged between each of her fingers.

He gulps.

* * *

When the beating's finally over, she picks up the hat that had flown off and fits it triumphantly on her own head.

"I like your hat, I'll keep it!" she laughs, walking off with her hands in her purple pockets.

He slowly gets to his feet, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He spits a tooth out and stumbles through the alley, and eventually back to his home. It's nearly five by the time he trudges through the door.

More than anything, he wanted to be there before Dad got home.

Dad's only home for thirty minutes before he has to leave for the night shift. He usually gets back around nine, and helps Karkat and Kanaya with their homework if they haven't already done it, but that's the only interaction his children get with him during the week. Karkat wanted to be there more than anything.

Of course, Grandma's there. She's wonderful and warm and he knows he can always come to her for anything, even if he never does.

But she's probably going to freak when she sees the tears in his sweater. She knitted it herself.

She'll probably freak out at the blood, too.

Karkat pushes open the door, which gives a creak in mild protest.

"Karkat?" the Dolorosa calls from the living room.

"Nope, the queen!" he calls back.

"Do you know what time it is?" He can hear her getting up and shuffling across the carpet.

Shit. _Shit._

He wishes that the Derse hadn't taken his hat. He used it in situations like these to hide his bloodied face, but now it's out in the open, where everyone can see, and _shit_ Grandma is going to _flip._

In a rush of questionable ingenuity, he darts right past her, as fast as he can, into the kitchen and opens the fridge, its onyx door hiding his battle scars.

"Karkat?" she inquires again, this time more confused.

"Yup."

"What are you doing?"

"Getting some food. I'm famished."

"And…you're okay?"

"Peachy."

"Really."

_Fuck._

Her tone is a knowing tone, one he's heard from her on more occasions than he can count, all of them involving him and the trouble that follows him like a shadow.

What gave it away this time?

"Karkat, look at me."

"I am looking at you."

"Unless you've developed x-ray vision overnight and can prove it to me thoroughly, then I suggest you close that door and look me in the eye."

He takes a gallon of milk from the fridge and slams it. He takes off as a blur, holding the milk over his face to hide his marred face.

He makes it all of three feet before Grandma closes her fingers around the back of his collar.

"I'm going to count to three, and we're both going let go of the things we're holding, okay?"

He's learned to read the expression in her tones, and by that strenuously acquired information, it's evident to him that she hasn't seen him really. Maybe she is getting older.

His grandma is getting older.

The thought shouldn't be so weird to him.

"One…"

Karkat clings to the milk carton for dear life, regretting the inevitable.

"Two…"

He's going to drop it when she says three, but he's not ready, he's not read to deal with —

"Three…"

Her vice grip dispels and he sets the milk carton on the dining room table.

He keeps both eyes clamped shut for the first few seconds of her scrutiny, but slowly opens the right, when he doesn't hear her scolding him.

She doesn't give a traditional Grandma shriek, and it's not like he was expected her to either, but the silence is deafening. They always tell him it's not his fault, but he feels so guilty right now and he understands why the Derse wanted to beat him up so badly, he'd give himself a beating if he could.

Through tentative slits, he views his Grandma. Her eyelids are tilted upwards and brimming with tears. She covers her mouth with a single hand.

"Karkat…!" she chokes out.

No, no, no, this is wrong. His grandmother has always been a strong woman, stronger than he could ever hope to be. She's not crying over a torn sweater, is she? Prospit intuition had told him not to wear it this morning, he knew it was her favorite, it was his favorite too, but he had ignored all the signs and now his grandma is crying and they always tell him he shouldn't, but he feels so _guilty_.

She walks closer to him and pushes his blood-encrusted bangs out of his face and looks him in the eyes pleadingly.

"Why do you let them do these things to you?"

He bristles and sidesteps her hand, running up the steps to his room.

At around eight, she comes to check up on him and slide him his dinner. She gets passed the locked door with her long, slender finger nails.

She doesn't take two steps into the room before he starts back up again.

"I'm sorry." He chokes out arduously, "I'm really sorry. I wanted to be home when Dad came home, and I wasn't thinking straight and I'm sorry, okay? I know it took you forever to get the pattern just right and —"

"Are we talking about that dumb sweater?"

He inwardly sighs in relief. That's his Grandma, the real one who doesn't cry over torn sweaters.

"Um…"

"Listen, honey," She sits next to him on his bed and runs her fingers through his hair, "I have so much time on my hands to knit, sweaters don't even get a first thought, let alone a second one. I don't care about them."

She takes out the first aid kit hidden in the folds of her shirt, and gets to work on dressing the wounds. He tried to wash the blood away in the sink, but there's only so much an amateur can do without supplies.

The process is slow-going and he can't help but wince at times, but his grandmother starts talking about nicer things and by the time he's all bandaged up, they're both laughing.

As nine o'clock rears its cherubic head, the Vantas household becomes steadily cheerier with anticipation. At 8:59, Kanaya and Karkat are lounging on the couches right next to the front door, talking with excitement.

When he walks through the door, Kanaya's smile is as bright as a vampire's skin. Karkat doesn't smile, but he's just as happy.

Dad is smiling too, but he stops when he sees Karkat.

He curses himself inwardly. God, why does he have to ruin everything?

"Karkat." Oh, and he's doing the serious voice too, this day could not become any shittier, "What happened?"

He sits on the couch between him and Kanaya and he feels even worse because Kanaya gets less time with their father than even he does and he's ruining her night.

"I fell." He immediately blurts, "Down the stairs. Ask Kanaya, she was there."

Karkat expected Kanaya to go along with it so they could enjoy their father's company instead of worrying about some dumb little scuffle.

But Kanaya surprised him.

"He did no such thing. I happen to know for a fact that he got it in a fight."

"Karkat, is this true?"

He huffs and folds his arms, sinking back into the couch. His father takes a deep sigh that sounds threateningly like a grunt. He rises slowly from the couch.

"What was that for?" Karkat whispers.

"For locking yourself in your room and not letting me in. I don't have finger nails like Grandma; I can't get into your room without a key."

"You could've knocked."

"Yes, because we both know you would've opened up immediately."

"What am I going to do with you?" Dad shook his head.

He gives another sigh and reaches into his satchel.

"Actually, I think I know." He pulls out a game of scrabble.

"And no. There is no alternative punishment."


End file.
